Michael stood on his feet in the director's box, his hands gripping the railing so hard his knuckles had turned white. His heart was a drum, beating a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
Down on the pitch, time seemed to slow down.
Jamie Weston, the kid from the cage, the [PA 89] diamond in the rough, was bearing down on the Rotherham goal.
The keeper, a giant of a man, was charging out, making himself as big as possible, his arms spread wide like a monster from a nightmare.
This was the moment. This was the acid test for Michael's wild, impulsive gamble.
He saw Jamie take a quick glance up.
In that split second, Michael could see the ghost of the first-half mistake flash across his face.
The safe play was to try and pass, to slide it to a teammate, to avoid the responsibility. The Rotherham defenders were scrambling back, desperation on their faces. The keeper was almost on top of him.
Jamie didn't pass. He didn't hesitate. He didn't even seem to aim.
THWACK!
With a primal scream of pure, unadulterated frustration and hope, he pulled his left leg back and unleashed an absolute cannonball of a shot. It was a shot of raw, untamed power.
The sound of the ball connecting with his boot was like a gunshot.
It flew with such ferocious speed that the goalkeeper, who had dived the right way, was nowhere near it.
The ball rocketed past his outstretched hand and smashed into the top-right corner of the net, nearly tearing it from its hinges.
The stadium, which had been holding its collective breath, was plunged into a half-second of stunned silence. Then, it erupted.
A roar, the likes of which Michael had only ever dreamed of, shook the very foundations of the old stadium.
Michael let out a shout of his own, pumping his fist in the air, the release of tension so powerful his legs felt weak.
Down on the pitch, Jamie Weston just kept running, his arms outstretched, a look of utter, disbelieving ecstasy on his face.
He didn't know how to celebrate. He just ran towards the corner flag, a "who, me?" expression of pure shock, before he was buried under a pile of his celebrating teammates.
The first one to reach him, Michael noted with a surge of pride, was the captain, Dave Bishop, who hauled him up and roared his approval right in his face.
The entire atmosphere of the game had been broken, reforged, and renewed.
1-1.
Michael sat back down, his entire body buzzing. He looked down at the touchline.
The next twenty-five minutes were a complete reversal of the first half. It was Rotherham who were rattled.
Their only tactic—brute force—was useless against a team that was now buzzing with confidence and zipping the ball around them.
The big, slow defenders were being pulled left and right, their lungs burning as they chased Barnsley's intricate, one-touch passing. The crowd was singing. The 'Old Guard' players, who had been skeptical, were now energized, their experience providing a solid platform for the young attackers.
Michael watched his other prodigy, his [PA 91] striker, and it was like watching a different species of player.
He drifted into pockets of space that the Rotherham defenders didn't even know existed. He'd pull a center-back towards him, only to spin away, creating a new passing lane for a teammate. He was the quiet, intelligent conductor of their new orchestra.
The second goal, when it came in the seventy-third minute, felt inevitable.
It started deep, with a calm pass from Dave Bishop.
The ball was worked through the midfield, triangle after triangle, until it found Danny on the edge of the box.
He had his back to the goal, and the same giant center-back who had been fouling everyone was plastered to his back, practically climbing on top of him.
For a moment, it looked like the attack had stalled. Danny was trapped.
But he wasn't.
With a subtle drop of his right shoulder, Danny faked a turn to the inside.
The defender, all muscle and no brain, bit hard, lunging to make a block. It was a fatal mistake.
In one fluid, balletic motion, Danny spun the other way, the ball seemingly glued to his foot, leaving the defender to slide harmlessly past, a bewildered look on his face as he ended up on the grass.
The stadium gasped. Danny was through. The keeper charged out again, but this was not Jamie's raw power.
This was cold, calculated class.
Danny didn't even seem to look at the goal. He just waited for the keeper to commit, and then, with a "classy, calm finish," he simply rolled the ball with the side of his foot, slotting it perfectly into the bottom-left corner.
It was an effortless, arrogant, and utterly beautiful goal.
2-1.
Michael just laughed, a short, sharp bark of pure joy. It was too easy...
The rest of the game was a formality. Barnsley passed Rotherham into submission. The final whistle blew, and the stadium erupted in a standing ovation. It was only a pre-season friendly, but it felt like a revolution.
The players were buzzing, congratulating each other, their faces alight with a new, shared belief.
As they walked off, Michael watched the TV cameras and press photographers bypass the established veterans.
They swarmed two players: a shell-shocked, grinning Jamie Weston, who was being named Man of the Match, and the coolly confident Danny Fletcher, who looked like he did this every day. The "new stars" had been born.
The next morning, Michael woke up in his flat, the sun streaming in. He was still riding the high from the win. He felt invincible. He went downstairs to the bakery, bought a coffee and a croissant, and grabbed a copy of the Barnsley Chronicle, the local sports paper.
He sat down at his small table, ready to read the glowing praise of his new regime.
The headline, in big, bold letters, made him stop.
"BARNSLEY'S YOUTH REVOLUTION: IS IT THE END OF THE OLD GUARD?"
Michael's smile faded. He unfolded the paper, his good mood evaporating. The article was a whirlwind.
It heaped praise on Arthur's "brilliant tactical switch" and gushed over the "dazzling, game-changing talent" of goal-scorers Weston and Fletcher. It called them the "beating heart of the new Barnsley."
But then, the article's tone shifted. It featured a large photo, not of the goal-scorers, but of Captain Dave Bishop, walking off the pitch at full-time, his face thoughtful, applauding the fans.
"While the future at Oakwell looks brighter than it has in years, sources inside the dressing room are already wondering what this 'new direction' means for the seasoned professionals who have been the backbone of this club. 'It's great, but you can't win a 46-game season with kids,' an unnamed senior player told the Chronicle. 'You need experience, and you need a balance. Let's hope we don't forget that.'"
Michael put the paper down, his coffee suddenly tasting bitter. He had won. His manager was a genius, and his young talents were stars.
And in doing so, he had just split his dressing room in two. He had created a new, dangerous "us vs. them" divide: the celebrated, exciting "Youth Revolution" against the forgotten, skeptical "Old Guard."